


Breakfast Blend

by One-EyedBossman (desert000rose)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Cohabitation, Episode 2x09 fill-in, Gen, General Domesticity, Implied Violence, Murder is fun but the cleanup notsomuch, Nausea, Nonsexual Bed Sharing, Not Beta Read, Nygmobblepot, Nygmobblepot Week 2017, This started as nothing more than a little bird rambling about the pretty boy in bed next to him, nygmobblepotweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2019-01-01 05:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12149373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desert000rose/pseuds/One-EyedBossman
Summary: After their fun with the Leonard the previous night, Oswald Cobblepot wakes up in bed next to Edward Nygma.For Nygmobblepot Week Day 3 - Domestic





	Breakfast Blend

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during Gotham 2x09 "A Bitter Pill to Swallow"

 

 

The first thing he becomes aware of is the warmth. Encompassing, bleeding up into his thin frame from the mattress itself, it’s a sensation he hasn’t felt in some time. He can’t remember the last time he’s been so comfortable, resting atop a soft mattress, perfectly tucked in a nest of heavy blankets, pleasantly on the edge between sleeping and wakefulness as he curls a little closer into the body next to him. It’s perfect.

 

It’s also _not right_ , and as consciousness returns to him heavy and unwanted, Oswald opens a bleary eye to search out the source.

 

Oh.

 

Suddenly, the layers of sheets, blankets, and quilts around him don’t seem quite so tempting to stay wrapped in forever. Or rather, it does, but he immediately decides that isn’t happening.

 

Really, he’s just lucky to have woken up first.

 

The second thing seeping into his awareness is the pain, but that’s a constant these days, and Oswald brushes it out of focus almost instinctively. The searing pain in his shoulder, the ache in his knee, those he is growing familiar with. It’s the stiffness in his limbs that bothers him most, everything feeling unusually weighted down and numb, making even opening his eyes a challenge for a moment as he heaves a graceless, toothy yawn, and then puffs air upward to try to blow his bangs out of his face.

 

They’d been drinking, but even the four or five of wine they’d consumed over the course of the evening, the rack’s entire supply, shouldn’t have been enough to leave him feeling like this. Years in the nightlife industry were enough to ensure that it takes far more to leave him truly hungover. But it does explain the little headache throbbing between his temples and not-quite-right sense about his stomach.

 

And of course, it explains the presence of the other body in bed next to him.

 

His bedmate is facing away, shoulders slanted gracefully, the pool of the sheets where they’ve fallen highlighting his narrow waist. Dark hair mussed from its normal style, dressed down in pajamas, stark flickering green illuminating the dramatic angles and planes of his form…it’s a look, to be certain. How any person can manage to look so…so elegant, while fast asleep, is a mystery to Oswald. He’s always simply curled up in whatever pile of wearied limbs works best for his knee a given night, often ending up in a pitiful lump. In contrast, the other man’s sprawl is enviably pretty, almost like something out of a racy magazine. He finds his gaze lingering, longer than it should, musing with some wry humor that Nygma looks almost completely innocent like that. Slack with sleep and comfort, though likely in for a wretched hangover upon waking if he handles alcohol as poorly as he looks like he might.

 

Looking at him, one would have no idea that mere hours earlier, he’d been giggling and giddy, hands soaked in blood as Oswald explained to him exactly how to time stabbing someone repeatedly so that each new cut was equally as painful and jarring as the last.

 

And yet. That’s exactly what had been… that, and so much more, and Oswald remembers now. He remembers pulling away from the corpse as their victim finally expired, draining the last bottle in a victorious toast as Nygma swayed giddily, more than a little drunk, and cheerfully told him not to worry about the body until the morning. They’d wrapped it in a tarp, and from the thick smell of copper and less pleasant things in the air Oswald is quite sure the mess is all still there waiting for them.

 

In hindsight, murder while inebriated is probably a poor idea.

 

It hadn’t much mattered the night before, while they were both drunk off the power of taking a life, the scent of blood and terror just as satisfying as the Bordeaux they kept passing back and forth, acidic and earthy on his tongue. Nygma had looked about like a puppy about to piss himself from excitement, and Oswald is quite sure now he hadn’t injected nearly enough spite into his voice to quell that joy when he’d ordered the other to tend the mess while he showered and changed into a clean set of the man’s clothes. Then it had been Ed—Nygma’s turn, to shower off and change into pajamas. He’d come out, looked at the body and _giggled_ again, and as mortifying as it is to remember it in the morning after, it had set Oswald off as well.

 

Somewhere in between the two of them laughing like idiots and the point at which Oswald’s wounds had left it too painful to keep going, Nygma had migrated back to his bed. Kneeling on it first, and then sitting on the edge, and then cross-legged across from Oswald…

 

…and then sprawled out beside him, a few more hushed words about the entire thing exchanged. Nygma had shivered in a funny way, rolled from his back to his side, and announced with a bright grin that he was staying right there for the night, too comfortable to move to the sofa where he had been sleeping up to that point.

 

To which Oswald had given an uncharacteristic lack of protest. He can’t even, really, blame it on intoxication. It’d just been so…comfortable. Exhaustion born from far too much excitement for his wounded body to handle all at once, and the warm sleepiness brought on by the wine had combined to leave him unusually agreeable, and he’d only burrowed down under the quilt deeper and warned Nygma he’d kick if the man started snoring.

 

And now here they are.

 

It’s starting to feel unnervingly natural to wake up in this man’s bed. To be here, in general. It’s an odd little flat, much like the rather odd individual who owns it, and yet amid the strange knickknacks and carefully curated clutter, there’s a sense of peace.

 

Everything in the apartment has a place. Everything, from the antique sewing machine, to the library card catalog drawers in the corner, to the meticulously arranged glassware stacked neatly on kitchen shelves, has a sense of meaning and purpose to it. The apartment is lived in, beloved, homey, far more so than the little safe-houses and backrooms he’d been staying during his initial revenge campaign against Galavan. Even the ever-present blinking green light from outside the window is far less infuriating than Oswald found it initially.

 

He’s becoming comfortable here. Far, far too comfortable.

 

Getting to accustomed to this place or its owner is a mistake. The thought jars him out of the little doze he’s been in, petting absentmindedly at the thin, faded cotton sheets. And he’s quick to try to recover, nudging the disgustingly floral quilt off his shoulders some to get out from under its heavy weight, moving too abruptly on purpose to let the sting of pain ground him.

 

This is temporary. Unsustainable. And he can neither let himself, nor the man next to him get too cozy. One night sleeping next to the other man is…allowable. They were drunk and it was late. But it mustn’t become habit.

 

(He’s warmer than he can remember being in months, and he hadn’t had nightmares that night. Whether it was from the wine, or the steady breathing and presence of Nygma beside him he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter. Sacrifices are necessary for success.)

 

For a moment, he almost feels a little bad, before remembering that he’s been taken here against his will, and that Nygma—the smiley, overly cheerful little fool that he is, will likely take one night as invitation to share the bed every night following if he’s not set straight with a firm hand.

 

And besides. The yelp he gives, as Oswald rather petulantly kicks him off the edge of the bed, is far too amusing for him to linger in his guilt for very long.

 

“Wake up.’’

 

The demand is somewhat redundant now, but Oswald barks it anyway, a dry smile twitching on his lips for a moment as he watches the younger man flail, tangled in the sheet and trying to figure out why he’s just been knocked onto the floor so abruptly.

 

“The body is stinking.’’ He pushes himself up in the bed, fussing with the pillows for a moment to keep them from falling behind the bed through the pathetic excuse for a headboard, before leaning back against the pile when satisfied with it.

 

“You need to clean it up before it gets any worse in here. And then make something for breakfast. I’m hungry.”

 

To his credit, Nygma seems to take Oswald’s petulance in stride, as he has for the past few days his “guest” has been conscious enough to fuss at him. Rather than bristling at the blunt orders, he sits up, brushing the sheet off the top of his head, messy curls spilling down his forehead in a way that makes Oswald purse his lips tightly to keep from smiling again.

 

Squinting for his glasses owlishly, bleary-eyed, and decidedly hungover, he looks nothing like the put together man who’s greeted Oswald each time he’s woken up the past few days. He takes a moment to revel in being able to see Ed Nygma anything less than perfectly pressed and coiffed, to not be the only one mussed and tired and slow for once.

 

“What?” Nygma blinks a few times, and Oswald rolls his eyes, helpfully repeating his words.

 

“The Leonard stinks. Clean it up.’’

 

Oswald speaks slowly, patronizingly, reaching over to nudge Nygma’s glasses to him in case the man’s brain doesn’t function without his corrective lenses squarely on his nose to turn it on.

 

“Oh.” A pause from him as Nygma blinks a few times and puts on his glasses. “Oh…dear.”

 

All at once, a funny look crosses his face, meaning made clear as he abruptly stumbles up and staggers to the bathroom to retch loudly.

 

Ugh.

 

It earns a low grumble from Oswald; apparently, he’s going to have to be the instigator of everything this morning. He makes a mental note not to let Nygma drink more than a bottle at a time again—he is _not_ about to play nursemaid for the man. Though…the smell surely doesn’t help anything. It’s enough to drive Oswald from the warmth remaining in the bed to limp across the floor, turn on the vent hood above the stove to at least get some sort of air moving.

 

The sound of another violent heave and tiny groan from the bathroom earns a wince from him. Deciding to take some mercy on his beleaguered host, Oswald carefully goes about imitating the process he’s watched the younger carry out the prior morning to start the coffee pot brewing.

 

Next, he limps over to retrieve a glass and fill it from the tap, carrying it to set on the bathroom sink despite the pain in his knee. It’s not particularly out of mercy—but the sooner the other man gets it over and done with, the sooner they can work on cleaning up the mess they left last night, getting rid of the stink.

 

“Drink this… and then clean yourself up.”

 

“I-” Whatever his reply was going to be is cut off by another dry heave, leaving Oswald’s nose wrinkling up.

 

“Just,” He sighs, giving him a perfunctory pat on the head. “Clean yourself up, alright?”

 

Maybe food will help calm his stomach. Oswald could certainly go for some, particularly in hopes it’ll take care of his own headache. And since Nygma is in no shape to tend it… it’ll be him then.

 

Leaving the other man to tend himself, Oswald limps back out to the kitchen, shamelessly stealing the other man’s robe off a hook and bundling up in it to make up for the lost warmth he’s abandoned by getting out of bed. It’s annoyingly long, leaving him wrestling to cuff the sleeves up enough that he can work.

 

He hasn’t done much besides just lie in bed and let Nygma nurse him so far. The man is a surprisingly competent cook, and after his initial suspicions about poison or slipped in sedatives faded some, they’ve had enjoyable meals together. The previous night comes to mind, even as he surveys the stack of takeaway dishes in the trash, the empty wine bottles piled near it.

 

Well. Let it not be said his renewed commitment to life wasn’t celebrated with style.

 

The sound of the shower cuts off in the background just as Oswald finishes cleaning up the remainder of last night’s dinner mess and gathering up the supplies he wants. It’ll be simple food; his shoulder is already aching dreadfully from how much moving around he’s done. But if he’s well enough to kill a man, he’s certainly well enough to make breakfast.

 

“I’m making food, you’re going to clean up the Leonard.’’ He orders without turning as he hears Nygma pad out from the bathroom, not giving him much chance to voice an opinion on the division of labor.

 

There’s a pause, a little ruffle of fabric as the other man finishes dressing, and then his voice piping up, unbearably cheerful as ever.

 

“I knew that would work.”

 

Oswald rolls his eyes, laying strips of bacon onto a pan to put in the oven as Nygma continues.

 

“A little stress relief is necessary, every now and then. Murder good for the soul, or something like that, you know?’’

 

“Your soul maybe, but probably not the Leonard’s.” He snipes the words dryly in response to Edward’s unusually insipid comments. He can hear the idiot grinning behind him, so he must be feeling better, but that’s still no excuse. And he doesn’t agree further. Nygma is smug enough as is without Oswald confirming that… yes. Yes, it did help. He feels…alive again this morning, in a way he hasn’t before.

 

But honestly, the body really does have to go.

 

Thankfully, Nygma seems to be almost as bothered by the smell as he is. It’s probably not doing any lingering queasy feelings any help. It’s remarkably…unbothersome, as the larger man pads up behind him, bracing a hand on Oswald’s uninjured shoulder as he reaches above his head to shove the kitchen window open and leave fresh, chilly, satisfyingly crisp air rushing in. It stinks of Gotham, of course, but it’s a far nicer smell than the corpse.

 

That done, Nygma sets about his assigned task, and the two of them work in peaceful quiet a while. Oswald pours the other man a cup of coffee and fixes it the way he’s seen Nygma do for himself, leaving it on the counter for him as the other man hauls chemicals out from a cabinet. A surprised, pleased sounding thanks chirps in his ears a few moments later, and Oswald hums in return.

 

They brush shoulders a few times as they work, but all in all manage to maneuver around each other remarkably smoothly in the small space. Oswald goes for a knife to cut up a fruit salad at the same time Nygma reaches for his meat cleaver to begin hacking the corpse into transportable pieces, and there’s almost playful elbowing over who’s going to get water from the tap first to alternatively start rinsing blood off the floor or boiling water for tea.

 

Despite the grisly noises behind his back… it’s almost rather pleasant, actually.

 

“Stop for a minute. I’ve got plates ready.’’

 

“Just a moment.”

 

He turns, and regrets it, swiveling back to the countertop before the sight of Nygma’s hands buried in the corpse’s abdomen leave him unable to eat the breakfast he’s just made.

 

“You’d better wash all of that off before you get your plate. And hurry. Your eggs are going to get cold.’’

 

The countertop is unusable, there’s _bits_ of it all resting in little tubs and bags, and various fluids spattered about. Oswald wrinkles his nose, shutting off the stove top and retrieving his plate, gingerly limping to curl up on the bed again and exhaling as he’s able to take the weight off his knee. Nygma joins him a moment later, grinning like a loon once more, and earning a longsuffering eye-roll from Oswald.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Penguin. This looks lovely.’’

 

“Don’t get used to it.”

 

Oswald looks up from attempting to stab a grape with his fork, watching Nygma sit cross legged near him with a plate in his lap, so like the previous night.

 

“And don’t get used to this either.” He huffs petulantly, gesturing to how both sides of the bed are disturbed. “I prefer sleeping alone.”

 

Nygma looks almost comical when he’s trying to fold his lanky frame onto the tiny, shoddy excuse for a sofa he’s been sleeping on. He looks deeply uncomfortable as well. But that’s not going to stop Oswald from exiling him back there. He escaped this morning without the other man catching him cuddled up to his back with a narrow enough margin as is. There’s no need to tempt fate by repeating the sleeping arrangements.

 

His host takes that good naturedly too, a tiny pout touching his lips just a moment, before he eyes the sofa and nods.

 

“Of course. I hope I didn’t cause you any additional pain or inconvenience your wounds.”

 

Oswald only shrugs in response, and Nygma seems to get the hint, shutting up for once to wolf down his breakfast almost as fast as Oswald does.

 

“I’ll change your bandages before I finish up…”

 

“No. They can wait. Get that thing out of here first. And take the trash out too while you’re at it.”

 

It comes off a little harsh, and before he can catch himself, remind himself that it doesn’t matter if he’s harsh, Oswald finds himself adding.

 

“I’ll wash the dishes while you’re out. Just… get rid of it. Before someone else smells it too.”

 

Nygma’s resulting smile at his offer is entirely too beaming for Oswald’s tastes, particularly first thing in the morning. He shoves his good leg at the man, catching him by surprise and kicking him off the bed again, pale eyes glinting in amusement at Edward’s yelp.

 

“Yes, Mr. Penguin.” He’s laughing, even as he gets up to finish his work. Oswald can’t particularly blame him, as he’s trying to shoo the smile off his own lips at the same time.

 

“And, Ed?’’ He corrects himself to the man’s first name just in time, earning those dark, intelligent eyes swiveling to him, bright and expectant.

 

“Thank you.”

 

The younger man beams at him, and for a moment he smiles in return. Only for a moment, though. Oswald almost immediately follows it up with a harshly snapped. “Now get out. And take that with you.”

 

It would be easy to get used to this. Playful back and forth, and cozy mornings spent working side by side in the kitchen on breakfast and other chores. But if he’s going to live…going to return to being the Penguin and avenge his loss, he can’t afford that. Neither can Nygma for that matter.

 

Oswald turns to gather the plates and start cleaning up, tensing at the chirpy little “Yes, Mr. Penguin” that follows his demand, warm as ever no matter how harsh he is.

 

They can’t afford to get too comfortable. But as they finish cleaning the apartment that morning, finding an efficient tandem again almost immediately, Oswald is quite afraid they already have.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware this has been written about quite a bit by others, but a plot bunny bit me and I wanted to post something little for today. This fic is unbeta'd; all mistakes are my own. If you see something glaring, do let me know and I can make any necessary edits. 
> 
>  
> 
> As always, comments are welcomed and dearly appreciated.
> 
> Good luck to everyone with the remainder of Nygmobblepot Week! New Gotham tomorrow yay! :D


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